


London - Marrakech (Business Class)

by queen_jadis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Everyone makes bad life choices, First Time, M/M, Mile High Club, Missing Scene, Morally ambiguous John, One Shot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 15:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9190316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queen_jadis/pseuds/queen_jadis
Summary: Before Sherlock confronted Mary about the memory stick he told John about it. Together, they made a plan.Then Sherlock and John stayed in London until they boarded a plane together to find her in Morocco.That must've been a strange period, mustn't it?





	

**Author's Note:**

> We all have our little ways of processing the new canon - this is mine.

Signs of infidelity. Boring. Pedestrian. Typical. The secrets most of the population carry with them usually are. Sherlock has almost stopped noticing them.

Almost.

But saw the signs in John Watson. The guilty eyes, the nervous fondling of his phone, his over compensating with his family and then the avoidance of eye-contact when the reminders of his betrayal pop up in his mind again.

Also the slight swagger, usually displayed by men who have recently been assured of their sexual magnetism.

Boring.  

Well. No. Not boring. But not relevant right now.

Those signs are secondary to the hurt in John’s eyes as he stands there, now, shoulders slumped. Secondary to the slight trembling in his fingers as he dials Molly’s number, begging her to be on standby to take Rosie.

When John and Sherlock will have confirmation of where Mary will run to they’ll need to leave quickly. Molly is the more able-bodied Godmother and John knows that she won’t refuse.

At least not if Rosie’s regular daytime nanny will be promised as well, making it possible for her to go to work.

Molly won’t say no.

Sherlock feels like he’s been running for days, for weeks, ever since his release from custody. But right now, in John and Mary’s boring little flat, everything has ground to an agonising halt.

John Watson might be cheating on his wife, but her betrayal is far worse.

“Can you dismantle a USB drive like that?” John asks, gesturing to the A.G.R.A. stick as he hangs up on Molly, who has – rather pathetically – said that she has nothing on for the next few weeks and can take Rosie whenever. “Without damaging it, I mean?”

Sherlock nods, carefully.

“Well, in that case – wouldn’t it be simplest to put a trace on it?”

John Watson. Even on his worst days he can provide simple, practical insights that Sherlock never would’ve reached without him.

Craig is quicker than MI6 when work like this has to be done and Sherlock is in a hurry. He needs to go lay a trap for one of the few people he’s ever called a friend.

Before Sherlock dashes off with his meeting with Mary, he tries to offer John some words of comfort.

"She might not run. She might confide in us."

The smile makes a brave appearance on John's lips but doesn't manage to get anywhere near his eyes as he agrees. "Yeah. Right. She might."

She doesn't.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock doesn’t even know what Mary’s doing, after she's gone. Where is she going, which loose end is she planning to cut? Does she have some secret resources in Belarus that she needs to recover before the showdown? Does she have a mentor in America that she needs to consult? Has she sent Ajay a message asking him to meet her in Norway for a final confrontation?

The possibilities are endless, and the fact that Sherlock doesn’t actuallyknow Mary all that well is all encompassing. If he knew her as an agent (“polite term”) he’d have a better idea of her motives, her strategies. But he doesn’t know her. Not really, and that stings a bit.

In the end he has it narrowed down by going through the information he copied from the USB-drive. Either she’s going to the Hotel Cecil in Morocco or to a club with no name in Geneva.

Once her movements have made him sure Morocco is the intended destination, he books the flights, helps John pack up Rosie and they’re off.

 

* * *

 

It’s a relief to be back in action. The game is on; pray and predator are both in motion.

The days while Mary was raking up air-miles were harrowing. John had spent much of them at 221B with Sherlock and Rosie. They told Mrs. Hudson that Mary had gone unexpectedly to visit her aunt, who’d suffered a stroke. Mrs. Hudson had done them the courtesy of pretending to believe that. And she’d helped them distract Rosie, even though she isn’t much use when it comes to any actual lifting, holding or rocking of the child.

Maybe she’d not only been distracting Rosie.

John and Mary had spent quite a bit of at Baker Street both before and after Rosie’s birth. Sherlock wasn’t used to people in his personal space – at least not people other than John. But it had been… good. Different than before, but good.

But this.

These past few days had been different still. Like a window into a future that could’ve been but never was. A future where John didn’t get married, a future that was still theirs and still filled with possibility.

Sherlock was grateful to Rosie for making regular gurgling noises to jerk him out of these thoughts.

And he is grateful to Mary for finally making her destination of Morocco known. Because leaving 221B finally broke the spell.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock tries not to look at John too much on the way. Tries not to read too much into his face. Tries not to guess what he’s thinking.

Tries not to wonder if it’s all over now - John’s happily ever after. 

He tries not to think about the Watsons' future – not to notice the tell-tale signs of betrayal in the swoop of John's hair, the new cut of his underwear, the bottom lip that’s swollen from guilty biting.

Mostly because he should neither be noticing John’s underwear nor his mouth.

He isn't sure when he stopped being able to make sense of John Watson.

 

* * *

 

At this short notice they can only get business-class seats, which is just as well for such a long flight. John is quick to order a drink while Sherlock makes do with peanuts.

This is his first time on a plane since his aborted exile. He finds that he doesn’t like it.

He can almost smell the coals, the lamp oil, the filth of the nineteenth century – which is not a comforting smell on board a small metal tube that’s supposed to carry you high above the ground for thousands of miles.

Maybe he should have a drink.

John is already on his third, and the seat-belt signs haven’t even been turned off.

It makes Sherlock nervous, a bit.

Drinking to unwind is all well and good but they need to be at the top of their game in Morocco. Whatever Mary will bring will be both dark and dangerous.

But he can’t seem to be able to put his objections into words. Can't even broach the subject.

His eyes glide away from John, these days. Always focusing on something just to the side of him, a little bit behind him.

It’s easier, that way.

Starting a conversation about something other than a case is… Difficult. Eye contact even more so.

That’s probably why the conversation about A.G.R.A. was so horrid. That conversation required total honesty, constant eye-contact. No illusions. It was neccesary because Sherlock’s promised that he will never keep John Watson ignorant about things concerning John Watson ever again. He promised – no more secrets between them.

He promised himself that he would always be able to look John Watson in the eye without flinching.

Sherlock might avoid John’s gaze these days, but when he does need to meet it he can do so with his head held high.

But conversations like the one about A.G.R.A. are a must. They can’t be avoided. The one about drinking on the way to Morocco – well, it can be avoided for a bit longer. Maybe John will sleep on the way. Maybe he’ll stop after three. Maybe they’ll have time for a kip in Morocco, before Mary arrives. Three drinks is okay for now, if that’s all there’ll become of it.

John is used to it, after all.

 

* * *

 

They haven’t sat this close to each other for ages. Not since before Sherlock jumped.

Sherlock can feel John looking at him.

He ignores it.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock has been dozing when he’s jerked awake by John’s hand on his thigh.

It’s resting there, quite high up, and there is a hard look in John’s eye.

And all Sherlock can think is: _Now? Really?_

The gesture is crude, considering everything that is behind it, even though John’s palm is warm and soft on Sherlock’s thigh. But after everything that has remained unsaid between the two of them it feels decidedly vulgar to finally broach the subject with a hand to the upper thigh, fingers digging into Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock licks his lips.

“It’s been good, this,” John says to him in a low voice. Sherlock feels sure that no one can hear them over the din of the engine but he still flinches at the words and scans their neighbours for listeners. “It’s been good,” John continues. “Being together, again.”

And the words might've sounded friendly, something between warm and casual, if that hand hadn't been sitting there, at the top of his thigh. Waiting.

Sherlock’s eyes fix on John’s and he can feel his insides turn to liquid.

He’s wanted this.

He’s dreamed of this.

But not like this.

Not where he’s just another notch on the bedpost of John’s marital bed.

Not where it’s filthy and dishonest.

He swallows, thickly.                                                          

“Yes,” he says. “It’s been good. My work…” He clears his throat. “It goes better when you’re there.”

John chuckles. Lowers his eyes, as Sherlock has seen him do countless of times as he flirts with nameless women in nameless pubs. “Yeah, I’m not really talking about the work, Sherlock.”

And his hand moves up another inch, just to drive the point home.

There wasn’t really room for the hand to move up further. It was pretty high up to begin with, and Sherlock can – to his shame – feel himself hardening. A blush steals over his cheeks and he shakes his head.

“You are married,” he grits out between his teeth.

“I married Mary Morstan,” John says evenly. “Then it turned out that she wasn’t actually Mary Morstan, but she was okay with being Mary Watson. She promised. The woman we’re following now is not Mary Watson. We’re not following the woman I married.”

John sounds reasonable. He doesn’t sound drunk, he sounds confident and cocky. Like he has seen something he wants and he’s – finally – decided to take it.

Sherlock could answer in so many ways.

He could point out that the cheating started before Mary wrote her little letter of goodbye, so John’s moral high-ground is shaky at best. He could tell John that he wants this – desperately – but that he’s not willing to do this with anything standing between them.  He could ask so many questions. But he doesn’t.

“She…” he swallows. “She might not be your wife – although I disagree – but she _is_ my friend.”

“She drugged you and stole from you,” John replies. “That’s not how a friend behaves.”

Sherlock looks down at John’s hand, which is still resting on Sherlock’s thigh.

“Friends apparently behave in all sorts of ways,” Sherlock says, and John’s fingers twitch a little, where they rest in the crease where Sherlock’s thigh meets his hip. Sherlock can feel himself give an answering twist and hates himself for it.

A flight attendant walks past them and eyes John’s hand warily. She’s approximately 35 years old, has been doing this job far longer than she initially intended and has started to despair that she’ll ever hold down a “real job” on the ground. She has no future here, no future down there and if there’s one thing she isn’t keen on it is giggling city boys intent on joining the Mile High Club.

Sherlock glares at her before she can even pretend to offer them drinks.

She scuttles off and he immediately regrets it. She might’ve been a way out of this.

John, as ever, remains clueless that any of this has happened.

“I know they do,” John says with a smile. A wild, predatory smile that is so out of place in this conversation that Sherlock’s teeth hurt. _This isn’t supposed to be like this._ He doesn’t want them to be the sort of _friends_ that get each other off in airplanes. He always knew that if they ever crossed this line it would be so that they could move from “friends” to “more.”

Friends with benefits was never on the agenda.

Sherlock isn’t comfortable talking about this sort of stuff. But he tries.

“John… I can’t. Not like this.” And he tries to put everything he feels into the meagre words, because he cannot – _cannot –_ look John in the eyes. Not when they’re finally voicing these things, not when John’s hand is _right there_ and not when Sherlock knows that John can _see_ everything.

He holds his breath, waiting for something to happen. John to say something. His hand to move away. Because his hand needs to move away.

It mustn’t move away.

Not after all this time.

Not when it’s finally here.

Sherlock feels flushed and he’s sweating. His heart is thundering and his mind is racing. One layer of it is trying to calculate the airplane’s precise location based on flight duration, speed and wind. Another layer is sorting out everything it has on file about A.G.R.A. for the meet-up with Mary, learning the layout of the city, going over a few language lessons. Making plans and back-up plans and alternate plans. But the strong undercurrent of his mind, threatening to drown everything else out – that’s all John.

Because maybe it’s true.

Maybe for these few hours – this is okay?

Maybe Mary would even agree. Actions must have consequences. She abandoned John, she drugged Sherlock – she went behind her words. Maybe she’d even agree that she has no claim on this moment.

Sherlock made a vow to the both of them the day John made a vow to Mary.

John’s vow to Mary has already been broken.

Mary’s vow was null and void from the moment it left her lips, a false name on her tongue.

Why does Sherlock have to be the only one to prop up this marriage?

It doesn’t seem fair.

And John’s hand doesn’t move away.

And Sherlock knows all the reasons this is a bad idea. A horrible idea.

An idea that could ruin them – and ruin him.

But when John’s face moves closer, Sherlock tilts his own upwards. Their eyes finally meet again and Sherlock tries to make sense of what he sees there – but Sherlock has never been good at this sort of thing. He still isn’t sure what John’s motives are. Revenge? Possibly. Frustrated arousal? Probably. An urge to allow something to happen that has been in the pipelines for years but could never come out – not until now? Maybe. Sherlock doesn’t know.

All he knows is that John is kissing him – finally. And it doesn’t feel like horniness or revenge. It feels soft and full of promise.

Sherlock can’t help but wonder if this is the sort of kiss that John has long since perfected for first dates. Intended to reassure and excite in equal measure. The thought upsets him more than he would’ve guessed.

But maybe John doesn’t kiss anyone else like this.

He _can’t_ be this tender with his one night stands. Surely he doesn’t cradle their faces like this. It is inconceivable that he’d also make these fragile little noises as he kisses _them_ – like he’s overwhelmed with what’s going on.

Sherlock is certainly overwhelmed. The kiss, sweet and soft is also incredibly erotic, what with John’s hand being just millimetres way from Sherlock’s straining erection.

They break apart, carefully, and Sherlock knows that everything he feels for John Watson is written on his face. He is completely vulnerable at this moment – there’ll be no preserving his dignity after this. They won’t go back to pretending. John now holds all the cards.

And then John’s hand lifts from Sherlock’s lap and he turns away. Sherlock can feel the air disappear from his lungs.

It’s over, then.

John has proved whichever point he was after.

Sherlock has made a fool of himself. As was expected since this conversation began.

John is standing up from his seat and Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, retreating into his mind palace – maybe to figure out how the hell this went so wrong, maybe just to hide somewhere with Redbeard.

And then the Belstaff hits him.

He looks up at John, who has just retrieved Sherlock’s coat from the overhead compartment and draped it over his lap, giving them cover for… whatever John has in mind.

John thankfully hasn’t noticed Sherlock’s distress. He’s busy winking at the stewardess, who is certainly aware what they’re doing, but willing to overlook it for a smile like that from John Watson. She winks back at him and places a finger on her lips to indicate that if they’re going ahead with this they’d better be quiet.

Most of the business class is asleep, including the woman across the aisle. There is plenty of room between the rows. The engines are loud. The risk should be minimum.

At least the risk of discovery – Sherlock has a feeling that there are all sorts of other risks here that might be much greater. But he is now far past the point of no return. The bridge is standing behind them now, the flames reaching for the night sky. The only way now is forward – wherever that may lead.

His overwhelming sense of relief when John slides back into his seat and does away with the armrest between them is slightly embarrassing.

“It’s a bit like making out on the sofa when you’re a teenager,” John says with a relaxed grin as he allows his hand to sneak under the Belstaff. “Or maybe the back seat of a car.”

Sherlock stares at him, at loss for words.

He certainly didn’t make out with people in the back seats of cars when he was a teenager.

This must be written on his face, because all of a sudden they are both giggling like they used to. Years ago – when things were uncomplicated. And now – now _this_ feels completely uncomplicated.

Well – that’s a lie – but that laughter helps them pretend that it is. And that’s good. That’s glorious.

The next kiss is greedier. Sherlock wants to feel everything. His fingers tear at John’s shirt, eager to touch the soft skin underneath it, and he licks and nibbles John’s lips, his jaw, his neck.

Being quiet is much harder than Sherlock anticipated.

John is smiling and making sushing noises, encouraging slower movements and more languid kisses. But Sherlock doesn’t care – he’s almost certain he can talk them out of an indecency arrest, although it would obviously be an unfortunate complication. But if this is the only time he can have this, then he damn well will. Because it’s been _years._

John feels real and solid. His skin is warm and he smells of cheap whiskey and Rosie and these products he has suddenly started to use in his hair. And it all feels much more…. physical than Sherlock had dared dream.

It’s tricky, touching John to his heart’s content at the same time John is touching him. The sensory input is overwhelming.

And John is touching him. Like Sherlock’s something to be desired, something interesting.

Sherlock had never accounted for that when he allowed himself to picture this moment.

He feels… well, aroused, mostly. But also quite emotional. The haze of lust does in these, frankly, sordid circumstances not manage to overshadow the magnitude of the moment, the weight of it.

But there’s John’s hand again. On his thigh, moving up. And this time it doesn’t stop and Sherlock whimpers, probably loudly, when John slides his fingertips firmly up Sherlock’s length.

Sherlock has managed to tug John’s shirt loose and his fingers steal upwards, towards John’s nipples, even as John wrestles with the button of Sherlock’s trousers.

Sherlock tries not to deduce things about John’s love life – it’s better if he doesn’t – but even Anderson must have realised that John has sensitive nipples. Sherlock's explorations of John's sides and back must, eventually, lead him there.

And Sherlock is glad that he's made it to John’s pectorals before John’s small hand slides into his underwear. Because from that moment on, Sherlock cannot think and cannot act. He shivers in John’s half-embrace, kissing him blindly and his fingers, always looking for something to fiddle with, can busy themselves with John’s nipples. And John doesn’t seem disappointed that this is all Sherlock can do. On the contrary – John sounds perfectly pleased about the development.

If “perfectly pleased” means thrusting his hips towards Sherlock, moaning quietly into his mouth and rubbing his penis with admirable agility considering the awkward angle.

Isn’t it pathetic, Sherlock thinks to himself, that this clumsy, emotionally murky incident is the best thing that has happened to him?

But it is. It really is. Because John seems happy to be there with him. He doesn’t look like a man with no conscience, he doesn’t look like a man hell-bent on revenge. He looks like Sherlock’s John Watson, smiling and aroused. And Sherlock can’t keep up with all the new micro expressions on John’s face, they’re flitting across it faster than Sherlock can catalogue them. And right now it doesn’t really matter if this will never happen again – Sherlock feels sure that he’ll be able to survive on this for the rest of his days. The memory of this will be enough.

And then his mind goes blank as the orgasm tears through him.

His finger clench on John’s nipples and John slams their mouths together to muffle the noise. It is the sort of orgasm that can shift the entire world.

It leaves Sherlock feeling like he’s been hit by a truck.

His breathing is erratic and his throat feels tight. And through it all… John holds him. One hand is still hidden under the coat, but the other one wraps around Sherlock, his cheek rests against Sherlock’s forehead and he just… holds him. Like he can understand just a little bit of what happened. Like he cares.

It is lovely, being held like this, but Sherlock is acutely aware that he still hasn’t touched John below the waist, and he is also aware that there are roughly 14 minutes until the decent will start and the lights will be turned on again.

“Can I…?”

“Oh, god, yes. But just a minute, first.”

John uses his right hand to reach for a slightly rumpled looking napkin which he slides under Sherlock’s coat to wipe his hand. He then tucks Sherlock away and carefully zips him up. Then he drags the coat over himself and gives Sherlock a wink.

“Probably safer like this,” he whispers. Sherlock nods, as he leans in for another kiss. He feels more alert, now, able to take in their surroundings. No one seems to have noticed them, but the flight attendant keeps a weather eye on them. The small wiggle of her hips suggests she hasn’t been unmoved by the display.

But Sherlock doesn’t care about her.

He just cares about the fact that John Watson is unbuttoning his jeans under Sherlock’s coat and inviting Sherlock to join him underneath it. Sherlock is allowed to touch John like this, is allowed to circle John’s cock in his hand and experiment.

He could spend days doing this.

He wants to know which movements elicit which sounds from John. He wants to know what gets him off quickly and how to draw it out. He wants to explore _everything._

But there are nine minutes until the lights will come back on and by then they need to be clean and tucked away. And besides – John seems to be roughly 90 seconds from coming, which gives Sherlock a limited window of time within to experiment.

In the end he just mirrors what John did to him. Firm grip, quick wrist movements, eager kisses. And in 78 seconds John Watson has come all over Sherlock’s hands. John keeps eye contact throughout, looking as if Sherlock is the greatest thing ever. It’s every exclamation of “brilliant” and “extraordinary” rolled into one look.

Sherlock doesn’t even think before pulling his hand from underneath the coat and licking it clean, but the moan from John sounds like it’s something unusual. Brilliant, even. Extraordinary.

The flight attendant’s covert look and renewed wriggling suggests the same.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John whispers, slightly breathless.

And it is brilliant – but it is also sad. Because now it’s over, this single, shining moment that Sherlock was given. And they need to focus again – on the subject of John’s wife.

But John doesn’t seem sad.

He seems pleased. Happy, even, as he leans forward and kisses Sherlock one last time before he disappears into the lavatory to clean up.

As he disappears the flight attendant covertly drops two bottles of water on John’s vacated seat. And a small note containing her phone number and the name of her hotel is also included.

Sherlock glares at her – she has the nerve to giggle.

He puts himself to rights as much he can and uncaps the water. It is cool and welcome and helps him gather his thoughts, a bit.

When John returns Sherlock is ready to play best friends again. Like this never happened.

John, however, isn’t.

He sits down and reaches for Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock stares down at their linked fingers.

“This wasn’t what I planned,” says John.

Ah.

Of course.

“Not to worry, it’ll stay between just the two of us. We…” Sherlock takes another sip of water. “We can pretend it never happened.”

“No,” John squeezes Sherlock’s hand. “No, I mean... Christ.” John fumbles for his hair. “I mean, you deserve better than this. I mean this wasn’t supposed to happen like this. But it was supposed to happen. It _had to_ happen. At some point.”

“I see.”

Sherlock doesn’t see. Not at all. But he has no idea what else to say.

John squeezes his hand again, as the lights come back on and passengers all around them start stirring.

“Sherlock, I’ll make this right. I… I promise. I’ll sort myself out. And I’ll come back to you. Once everything’s been cleared up. Okay?”

Sherlock’s head hurts. He doesn’t completely get what John’s saying. He doesn’t know if John is telling him… that he’ll divorce Mary? And he doesn’t know if he should be stopping that if he is.

Sherlock likes Mary.

Certainly she’s not without her faults – fatal shootings, compulsive lies and poisonings spring to mind – but he likes her. And she knows that she will never forgive him for breaking up her little family.

But then again that family was maybe broken beyond repair when John and Sherlock boarded this plane?

Sherlock's head hurts and he needs to process this. Later.

But for now John’s hand rests in his and he has vague promises of a future to tuck into the most secret parts of his mind palace.

That will do, for now.

And if only he’ll manage to sort out this mess of Mary’s, then this whole thing might work out.

He’ll just have to give John time to figure this out and find some closure.

He’ll just have to go out there and be Sherlock Holmes for John.

Everything will work out fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Please find me on Tumblr - I'm http://queen-jadis.tumblr.com/


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